


Lost and Found

by florahart



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Classification of the feels of a t-shirt is harder than one might imagine, Clint gets handed down a lot, Clint needs a hug even when he is a t-shirt, Definitely AU, Fluff, Fluff with some angst, M/M, anthropomorfic - Freeform, did I mention ridiculous, rated R for ridiculous, shut up I like sap, workout clothes AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:16:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3458756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/florahart/pseuds/florahart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint only knows his name because it's on his tag in black Sharpie, left over from a million years ago, before the extremely damp week in Central Park under a tree until the grounds crew found him, before the lost and found at the Y until someone he didn't know claimed him, before the kid with the runny nose bought him at the Goodwill.  But now, now he has a home and a friend, and his life is pretty good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, y'all. I've been in other fandoms where there were a ton of whackadoodle AUs and today I just ...wrote one. 
> 
> Clint/Phil, workout clothing AU. Because obviously. Don't judge.

Clint's life hasn't always been easy. 

He only knows his name because it's on his tag in black Sharpie, left over from a million years ago, before the extremely damp week in Central Park under a tree until the grounds crew found him, before the lost and found at the Y until someone he didn't know claimed him, before the kid with the runny nose bought him at the Goodwill (well. The kid's mom. Whatever).

Before finally he was lost again, and came home in a bag with other unwanted t-shirts to live here, in an apartment on the twelfth floor, with a guy who wears him to the gym and sometimes to run outside.

All in all, he knows he has it pretty good now, and he kind of wants this guy to just keep him until he wears out completely, until his printed arrow is faded to nothing and his edges fray through. Because next to him in the drawer, and sometimes over him on a cold morning run, is Phil. Who is soothing and calm, all clean black lines and reassurance. Who is awesome and in charge, and who Clint won't admit he angles to be put away right next to if he has anything to say about it, which, usually he does not, but he still hopes really hard every laundry day.

Phil's name is stitched in, care of, he says, long-ago teenaged summer camp. The guy who runs with them is also named Phil (Philip, because apparently he thinks that sounds cooler, which Phil assures Clint it does not and the guy will figure it out eventually), and he's had Phil, the soft warm hoodie with pockets and cuffs and tidy piping, for a good five or six years, Phil guesses. Clint just likes the way he and Phil sometimes spark when they touch, and the way Phil wraps around him like he wants to keep him safe. It's probably not actually that; covering the t-shirt is the job of a hoodie, right? But it doesn't do any harm for Clint to pretend, and it feels nice, so he does.

It's not like Clint never works in other teams. Sometimes he goes on with a pair of fairly hideous stretchy purple shorts (they match, kind of, in an eyebleeding kind of way) for a couple of rounds in the gym's ring when Philip has had a bad week. Sometimes he works with a red-white-and-blue mouthguard and knee and elbow protectors when Philip wants to fuck around on a skateboard. Sometimes Philip wears him with a red and gold helmet for a trip on his bike, or with black and red wristbands to play tennis. Philip's a pretty athletic guy. So it's not like he _always_ gets paired up with Phil, but they do form kind of a good go-to set, and Philip runs almost every day regardless.

And then eventually Philip finishes grad school and gets a real job, to which he wears fancy-schmancy button-down shirts and ties, and all at once, he only makes it to the gym three or four times a week. And, because fancy-schmancy button-down types apparently go to a whole different kind of gym than college kids using the campus rec center, he buys classier workout clothes, too.

And now, Clint's worried. Because this smells like a situation where he's going to get donated again, and all right, he'll land on his metaphorical feet because of course he will; surviving being thrown away has kind of become his _thing_ , but he also might be (almost certainly _would_ be) separated from Phil, and that makes his stitches pull and his tag curl up a little, so he tried not to think about it, tries to just be glad that he's in the drawer right on top of Phil and has been for a couple of weeks.

Finally, very early one morning Philip pulls him out and puts him on, and then (yay!) pulls Phil out after him, which makes Clint do a little involuntary wrinkling over Philip's shoulders in his excitement. Philip pulls Phil on and smooths them both down, Phil sliding down over Clint in the most perfect way like he always does, and they go out for a run with—oh hey. Philip seems to have a new boyfriend.

Clint likes him immediately, mostly because it's obvious he really likes Philip, looking at him like he hung the moon, and okay, also because he says Clint looks good on Philip, that purple's his favorite color, and Clint likes a man with taste. Fifteen minutes into their run there's some surprise smooching, pulled off the path and behind a tree, and that's a little uncomfortable to witness, but also sort of hot, and then Philip says if they keep going they're never going to improve their time, so they go back to running. Clint isn't sure what they need to improve their time _for_ , but he likes the rhythm of feet hitting the ground and arms swinging in time.

Well, and he likes the way every jostle moves him inside Phil, the way Phil makes these soft shushshush noises as they rub together. He also likes the way Philip and the boyfriend talk as they run. They sound happy, and they sound like they like each other. Philip's last boyfriend was rude, and the one before that was sarcastic in the not-funny way, so if it's up to Clint, maybe they can keep this one. Philip feels happy against his skin, and Clint is a big fan of people feeling happy.

When they get back to Philip's place, Clint and Phil are both tossed a little carelessly into the corner, but that's okay. They land in a heap, and they can't see Philip and his new guy from here, but they can hear them. Phil's piping gets a little slick with embarrassment, but Clint calms him down and reminds him that love is awesome and to be encouraged and approved of, right? And Phil says yes, of course. 

Clint's shoulders wrinkle a little again at that. He likes it when Phil says he's right. And when they talk about love-type things.

When all the sounds cease and the room starts to cool, Philip and the boyfriend get up and shower, and then they dress in Philip's nice clothes, although the boyfriend seems to be more of a jeans and tank top kind of guy. They head off to wherever they go (Philip goes to work, and Clint assumes the boyfriend does too, but obviously not at the same place; the boyfriend is the opposite of fancy-schmancy, as far as Clint can tell), and twenty minutes later the kid that does Philip's housekeeping lets himself in and gathers them all up for the wash—Clint, Phil, the boyfriend's damp stuff, a couple of towels, and because the kid is kind of a douche, a bunch of his own laundry because he knows he can get away with it for free.

They all go in the wash together. This is when tragedy strikes. Twice.

First, the douchekid tosses in a t-shirt that's electric blue, and apparently new; its color bleeds _everywhere_ , and while Phil is relatively impervious because black is more or less black(ish), Clint knows he's changing color right before everyone's eyes. And he _likes_ being purple, damn it.

But second, and worse, when they go into the dryer Clint falls to the floor and while the kid is distractedly snatching him up with one hand and tossing Phil into the drum with the other, Phil catches funny on the latch and Clint hears him tear. He tumbles toward him in the moist warm air, catching at him and trying to get a decent look, but Phil keeps slipping away, and from where Clint in his gross bluish dye job is sitting, the gash looks bad, looks like it's only getting worse from the tumbling.

Clint tries, anyway, to stay close, and Phil keeps quiet about it, which is no real surprise; complaining isn't really his speed. When the drum stops and they're all there quiet together, the electric blue shirt mutters an apology and Phil just holds still, silent and kind of gray, although it's really hard to tell if that's the effect of the blue or the tear. The dryer's sucked all the moisture out of them, so Clint can't cry, but he kind of wants to.

Half an hour later, the kid gets everything out of the dryer and folds most of it, but tsks at Phil's ripped-wide front and leaves him in a heap on the bed when he puts Clint away.

Damn it. 

Clint waits, alone, for hours. 

Well, no. He's not alone. The wristbands cuddle up against his back and the purple shorts glance at his new color, up and down, and offer a gesture of support.

The protective gear all lives in a special cabinet by the front door; Clint has no idea what they get up to in there and right now he doesn't care; all he wants is to know that Phil is okay. Is Phil okay? The others don't know, and Philip isn't back until late.

Clint hears him sigh at Phil and walk back into the living room, and then he comes back, apparently alone, and goes to bed.

Clint shrugs his way to the bottom of the drawer and doesn't talk to anyone all night, or all the next day, or the one after that. He doesn't have anything to say. Maybe it would be best if Philip took him back to the Goodwill, or maybe it's time for him to learn to love Pledge spray and enjoy his golden years as a cleaning rag. Or maybe he can just stay in here, forever. He has no place better to be.

–

“Hey Coulson!” It's the boyfriend, and he sounds too cheerful for Clint to tolerate; also, he doesn't know why he's calling Philip Coulson. It's his last name, but the utility of those has never been clear to Clint, and either way, there's nothing wrong with Philip.

“Barton, I thought you were out of town until Sunday.”

“I was. I'm back early. Hey, what happened to your shirt?”

“Laundry accident.”

Clint cringes even lower into the drawer.

“Eh, that's fixable,” the boyfriend says.

Clint lifts his collar a little.

“You think?”

“Sure. You got a needle and thread?”

“What, right _now_?”

“No time like the present, and I mean, no reason to toss something that's still totally in good shape over one little tear. I'll do this up while you order dinner?”

“Well, my mother gave me a sewing kit once. It's in the closet. I've never used it, but--” 

“I'm an old hand. Growing up in the circus leads to a lot of weird skills, and costume repair was definitely on the list. He'll be right as rain in ten.”

Clint waits a second, then elbows his way back to the top of the drawer. They are definitely keeping this boyfriend. Right? He shoves and when that doesn't work beckons the wristbands and shorts to help him, until the drawer cracks open a tiny bit. The boyfriend is sitting on the side of the bed, bottom lip caught in his teeth as he makes tiny neat stitches in Phil, who is losing the gray more with every pull tight of the thread.

The thread, which is purple, because it's Barton's favorite color, and Clint warms a little at the thought that now he and Phil will kind of match. 

“There we go,” Barton says, running a finger over Phil's repaired torso. “Barely even see your classy battle-scar there, man.” He folds Phil and opens one drawer at a time until he finds Clint and lays Phil inside. 

Clint can hardly stand to wait for the drawer to close to grab Phil close. Phil snuggles back into his grip and hums a little contented noise and says he thought that was the end for him.

Clint nods, and squeezes tight. He thought so too, and he doesn't want to waste a moment of the second chance to show Phil how he feels.

After a second, Phil shifts slightly and turns his hood. He tells Clint he's okay, and tells him he's so glad to be back, and tells him he never wants to leave him again. A spark of static jumps between them at the movement, and ohhh, that's nice; Clint knows he probably has a dopey grin on his face, but he doesn't care. He has Phil back, to stay.


End file.
